


Painted to Perfection

by cissys_ratched



Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Opera AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Fluff, Friendship, Gwendolyn is an Opera Singer, Has some swearing in it because swear words are the spice of life, Huck and Mildred are BFFs, Huck appreciation because he deserved more, Internalized Homophobia, Mildred is an artist, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, This is burn is so slow season two will probably be out by the time this is finished, Trigger Warning for Anxiety Attacks, chapter 4 is coming don't worry! (and will feature a drunk gwen)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28585464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissys_ratched/pseuds/cissys_ratched
Summary: Mildred Ratched is a poor art student living in New York City, and is constantly haunted by bad luck and a pair of piercing blue eyes. Desperate to save her grades and finally earn her degree, she is forced to meet the woman behind them, and is thrown into a type of creation and an art form she had never thought herself capable of. A modern setting, Opera AU.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Comments: 14
Kudos: 77





	1. We spoke, we fought, we ran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I've been a member of this fandom from its infancy, and after the reading the works of the absolutely talented authors on this website, I was dragged out of my creative writing hibernation to finally post something. I have been working on this plot and storyline for a while (don't worry, unlike the last time I last wrote, I actually have a direction for this to go in!), and so I'm very excited to finally post the first chapter! Trigger Warning for an anxiety attack!

"I prithee speak to me as to thy thinkings," - Act 3, Scene 3 of Shakespeare's Othello

—————

Mildred Ratched was the perfect model of composure. A natural perfectionist, someone who calculated each word before she spoke it. However, those tendencies were beyond her one particular day, when something occurred, set off by a catalyst of stress. It could have been the many sleepless nights, the consumption of lots of caffeinated tea, or the monotonous action of redoing the same piece over and over again until composition was perfect that made her routine become thrown off. It wasn't until she sat down to add the finishing touches on the piece that the consequences of those actions caught up with her. She missed her alarm. The cause of it didn't matter though, because whatever occurred left her scrambling to unceremoniously toss expensive painting supplies and pencils into an rather unattractive canvas sack. 

Of all days, the one she had to be late for was an art critique. An art critique that made up the majority of her grade. 

Normally, Mildred prided herself that her hair was always perfectly coiffed and styled; her makeup applied with elegance. But today her auburn locks fell in haphazard curls around her face and she only had the time to swipe on some lipstick and mascara. It was ironic, at the beginning of the year her professor stressed to his class how your physical presentation was of the upmost importance for his class, especially on the day of critiques. Mildred, in her worn Doc Martens, university sweatpants and thrift store hoodie, somehow doubted she fit that criteria. 

Rushing through the crowded pedestrian traffic of New York City was anxiety inducing enough, but the fact that Mildred had to do it with a large art piece slung under one arm was even worse. Especially since her work kept accidentally hitting all those who came within a few feet of her. It was mortifying beyond belief as someone who normally tried her best to blend into the crowd. But, the fact of the matter was: Mildred was late and had no time to think about it. She was extremely late, and would be lucky if she made it at all to the critique. 

However, someone sent a thud against her left side that threw her off balance, causing her to lose the grip on her bag. A devastating sound proceeded as the bag hit the ground and its contents were sent rolling out onto the street. Once again, the rug had been pulled out from under Mildred’s feet. 

“Shit, shit, shit shit shit.” She chanted under her breath as she swiped up the bag and was forced to watch as various pencils and paintbrushes rolled into eleven o’clock traffic. 

Without thinking and the only thoughts on her mind on rescuing her supplies before they got crushed, Mildred Ratched ran into the street. Fortunately it was during a red light that she was able to get the majority of them up, though she could feel eyes on her back from onlookers. She grumbled, thinking it truly was a testament to humanity that no one bothered to help, instead choosing to watch a grown woman in nothing but sweatpants and a hoodie struggle as her entire months paycheck was dumped in the street. Caught in between locating the last few pencils and her rubber eraser, and watching the oncoming traffic she didn’t even notice the hand that firmly gripped the back of her shoulder. Despite her tugging, it managed to yank her back onto the pavement. She tried to pull away yet again, 

“Excuse me, I was trying to retrieve -“ 

“Your pencils, I know.” A firm but feminine voice caused her to turn her head. She was surprised to meet the gaze of perhaps the most piercing blue eyes Mildred had ever seen. 

She paused, immediately loosing her words. She could only stare at this anomaly, this strange woman who had the most worried gaze over someone she had just met. What was even more puzzling was the fact that she was so finely dressed, in a pair of designer kitten heels and a pantsuit the student bet could pay for her apartment rent. Yet her lack of hesitation and the intense, startling gaze she gave the younger woman betrayed Mildred's prior feelings of upper class women who dressed similarly. Though, she did doubt that the suits they wore flattered their bodies as much as it did this woman's. At that admission, Mildred felt the heat rise to her cheeks and pleaded, "what is going on with me? That's too much to unpack now." Turning her attention to the moment at hand, the young woman found her gaze caught with eyes so clear they almost glacial. Almost as if they were trying to dissect her. It caused a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if they were a ladle stirring a large pot. 

“I couldn’t watch you get crushed by a taxi over some pencils and brushes”

“Those happen to be very expensive Ms.-“

“Briggs. Gwendolyn Briggs.” 

The lights finally changed, and Mildred watched in defeat as the few remainders of her supplies were crushed by a particularly large delivery truck. Sighing she said, 

“Thank you Ms. Briggs, but I must be goin-“

“I’ll replace them.” 

Mildred stopped in her tracks.

“Why would you? It’s not your fault.” She questioned, immediately defensive. It would be foolish to get her hopes up for an inevitable disappointment. 

The ginger haired woman paused and met the sizable gaze after.

“Because it’s the right thing to do.” 

It was cold and perhaps a bit cruel, but Mildred laughed. 

“Thank you for the offer Ms. Briggs, but your pity isn’t needed.” 

Before this curious woman could say anything else, the art student turned and sprinted away, hoping she still could make it in time for the critique and trying to rid the image of the particular shade of ice blue from her mind.

—————

The doors of the art department were large metal boulders, a fact that Mildred forgot as she tried to subtly enter her classroom in the midst of someone’s critique. She thought she was in the clear until a large thud blew her cover.

“Ah, Ms. Ratched. So kind of you to join us.”

Shit. She glanced up from the floor to the back of the dimly lit classroom through a sea of students to meet the unyielding gaze of her terrifying, albeit brilliant, professor. 

“I’m sorry Dr. Hanover, I finished my piece but I just got-“ 

“-Did I ask for excuses?” He looked over the rims of his thin framed glasses. “Ms. Ratched please sit down. I’m feeling generous today, so you may go after Huck.” 

Mildred bit her tongue and gingerly set her bag down in her usual seat, and turned her attention to the front of the classroom. There, the only source of light in the otherwise dark classroom was illuminating a large oil painting. Mildred smiled to herself. Even if Dr. Hanover hadn’t mentioned it was Huck going, she would have spotted his work from a mile away. 

Huck Finnegan was the one person in the world Mildred Ratched could even remotely call a friend. It had been coincidental, as he sat down next to her the first day after no other seats were available. 

—————

“Is this seat taken?” A soft voice made Mildred turn her attention away from the front of the classroom, where her newest art professor, the esteemed Dr. Richard Hanover stood reviewing their schedule and critique expectations. 

Mildred prided herself on being able to keep her emotions to herself, being able to slip masks into place, and not making a habit of broadcasting her reactions freely. She was glad this was this case, as when she turned to meet the owner of the hushed voice with an answer, her words got caught in her throat.

He was her age, maybe younger, and from her immediate line of sight, all she at first saw was a clean white button up that had been carefully pressed and ironed. However it was when she looked up did she almost let her reaction slip through. The left side of his face was badly scarred, from what Mildred couldn’t guess. It was clearly a few years old and healed, though it was textured with pocks and craters in an irritated pink. One of his otherwise soft eyes was partially clouded over, turning an otherwise brown gaze slightly gray. The slight pause in silence was likely a normal occurrence for the young man, and Mildred quickly saw how his nervous smile fell. Quickly, she attempted to reclaim it, 

“No, no one’s sitting here. You’re very welcome to it Mr. -“

“Finnegan, Huck Finnegan.” He beamed warmly, quickly taking a seat on the metal stool and extending a hand. 

“Mildred Ratched.”

————— 

Despite admitting to Mildred at the beginning of the year that he only had one fully functioning eye, she never would have thought. He described it as looking through a fog, he could see the general shapes of things, but could never quite focus on the details. Because of this, Huck was a rare type of artist, one who carefully thought out each stroke of paint and each flick of his wrist with a pencil. Sometimes Mildred would just watch him in class, watch as he used his good eye to carefully assess different angles, ensuring every possible view was perfect. One time she asked him, 

“Why don’t you try using your different perspective?” 

The short and stocky man turned from his current piece, a landscape of a small west-coast town he had always wanted to visit. It looked out from rocky cliffs and down onto frothing crashing waves.

“what do you mean Ms. Ratched?” 

“I told you it’s Mildred, Huck -“

“- right, sorry Mildred, what do you mean by that?“

She got up from the uncomfortable art department stool where she had sat bent over on a watercolor piece and walked over to where Huck sat at an easel. She stopped and studied the painting for a moment before leaning over. 

“What I mean is, have you ever thought of using your abilities to their potential?” He cocked his head, almost mimicking a dog.

She covered his one good eye slowly, so if he wanted to stop her he had plenty of time. He let her gently cup his face.

“What can you see?” She asked quietly. 

“Everything’s milky and fuzzy, just like always.” He stared in disbelief and scoffed, “I don’t see what’s so special about it.” 

“Just to you, to me it foreign. Imagine painting images from your own personal and unique views.” 

He set his brush down, rigid shoulders betraying how tense this conversation made him. 

“Mildred, I- I- don’t think that would be a good idea.”

The woman stood up and gave him a private smile, one she only reserved for the man who had become her only friend. 

“Just think about it.” 

Nodding, Huck turned back to his piece. 

————— 

“Excellent work Mr. Finnegan, not a brushstroke out of place per usual.” Dr. Hanover beamed and started a small round of clapping. “Next we shall have Ms. Ratched.” 

Mildred went rigid despite knowing her piece was of the caliber expected. It was a feeling she couldn’t shake from her childhood spent taking charcoal from fires and drawing in the sand, and wanting to impress her foster parents. An inherent need to prove herself. Any modicum of a chance that she could loose respect, and be deemed a failure, a waste of space was something that still deeply scared her even into adulthood. It was only with one calming breath and an encouraging smile from Huck later that Mildred carefully picked up her piece and went to the front of the classroom. 

She could feel the intense stares from her peers, no one more so than the one coming from Dr. Hanover. She had just opened her mouth to begin talking about her inspirations and the process she used to create the composition when Dr. Hanover spoke.

“So, Ms. Ratched, what inspired your wardrobe choices for today?” He stated flatly. 

Despite the desire to succeed and fear of failure coursing through her veins, Mildred couldn’t bite her tongue in time before she said,

“I thought you didn’t want excuses?” She deadpanned, staring directly at where her professor sat, even though she couldn’t see him through the blinding lights aimed at her. 

Silence. 

The woman’s mind finally caught up with her mouth, causing her cheeks to beat red. An awkward silence stretched on, one that despite the classroom being silent, left Mildred with the roaring of waves in her mind and an intense pressure on her forehead.

“Zero credit Ms. Ratched.” His firm voice echoed from the back of the classroom. 

Facing towards the board, Mildred could feel her heart jump into her throat. Damn it, tears were building. A childhood spent learning to feign off tears, and she couldn't keep it together. If the young woman wasn't so shocked, she would have laughed at herself. How much work had she put in, how many sacrifices had she made, just for this? 

“But Dr. Hanover I-“ 

“Get out.” He spoke louder. 

She finally turned to face him, so desperate to save her grade despite knowing the bright lights in the front of the room would betray her watery eyes.

“Please I-“ 

“For god’s sake woman, leave my classroom!” His voice boomed. 

Mildred proceeded to grab her piece, leaving all of her personal belongings behind. Her phone, her keys, her wallet, all of her art supplies. It didn't matter, she needed to leave. Leave before the tears threatening to spill finally fell in a torrent. Never in her life had the art student been claustrophobic before, but now the white walls around her threatened to close her in till she couldn't breathe. 

One word she was familiar with in her childhood came back to repeat its sickly mantra.

Run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least Mildred showed up to a critique with a finished piece, I have definitely shown up before with just sketches. I would also like to thank one of my friends who will never read this for being the inspiration behind Mildred and Gwendolyn's first encounter, after she was rushing and dropped a cup full of a million paintbrushes in a crowded parking lot...I hope you enjoyed, sorry for such a short first chapter! It was the best place to end it, but I plan to have the next one out soon. Kudos and comments are always appreciated and if you have any constructive criticism, feel free to share! This is the first time I have publicly shared creative writing in many years, so forgive me if I am a little rusty.


	2. She fell, she dreamt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mildred and Gwendolyn are haunted by each other's brief interaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight" - Desdemona from Shakespeare's Othello
> 
> \-----
> 
> A small reference point for those unfamiliar with theatre terminology: 
> 
> The exchange of "places in two," and "thank you places,": an exchange that happens backstage between performers so that they know and acknowledge how long it is before they need to be offstage in their place to begin. 
> 
> Pin curls: a type of curls that is used by performers with long hair so that their wigs lay flat. 
> 
> \-----
> 
> Also the music is from the song Rhiannon, sung by the icon that is Stevie Nicks

As is often the case in a fit of fear, Mildred made a bad call. 

After throwing herself against the door, the student burst out into the bright sunshine of early afternoon. The bright and cheeriness of such weather was almost mocking her, a perfect rendition of dramatic irony. She staggered out onto the pavement, catching herself on a lamp post overlooking an intersection, one hand still haphazardly gripping her failed piece. The whoosh of the passing heavy New York traffic made her auburn hair dance in the breeze to a song she couldn’t hear. Not right now at least. 

The pressure in her head was still present, still pounding as if her heart had jumped from her chest to her forehead. It continued a rhythm of painful beats, with waves of roaring tides, and punctuated her vision with black dots. Against better judgement, she leaned her forehead against the hot metal of the lamppost, closing her eyes and trying to slow down the pounding in her chest. One hand reached up to rub the back of her head while the other held her finished failure of an art piece limply. 

Her head kept pounding with a separate pressure to the one on her forehead. This one pressed in on either side of her skull, and it was a feeling she had been fortunate enough to become unfamiliar with - for a time. Failure. After spending so much of her youth as an artist facing failure, she thought she had become numb to it. Rather, it had made her grow weak.  
All she could think about was how her grade sat in immense jeopardy. Dr. Hanover’s class was one she needed to graduate and more importantly, she needed a high grade in. One of the primary reasons she even dared to take such a hard class was that having a high grade and an approved Portfolio from Dr. Hanover was essentially a pass for an art career, or a guaranteed acceptance to any graduate school or studio in New York. 

She tried to will herself to put her walls in position, ones she had fashioned as a child after being bounced from foster home to foster home. In that environment, she had quickly learned that to shut yourself away from the world, from other people and their disappointments, was the only way to survive. Her time in safety, her time with a genuine friendship, had made her soft. Soft at least in her eyes. 

All she could think was, how had she let herself become so…comfortable? She should know by now, the world had no kind of comfort for a person like her. A person so…damaged. 

“Damn it!” She finally yelled, a small sob hiccuping out in a rare outburst. 

She had made a bad decision. Her keys, phone, wallet, everything were still in the classroom. All she had taken with her was the piece of shit that she put so much time into, but ended up making her late for the critique and set the dominos to fall. As if her gaze could burn hole, Mildred glared down at the piece of paper board with as much loathing as she could muster. In a fit of fury and anguish at her time and passion wasted, the redhead picked up the painting and with as much strength as she could muster, frisbeed it out into the middle of the road. 

It gave her little satisfaction as she watched taxi’s and office workers on their lunch breaks roll over the piece, crumpling it and turning its swirling colors to dull grays. 

She swore to herself, no more emotions, no more displays. It only opened her vulnerabilities, it only opened her to more hurt. It was stupid that for a short time, she even let herself believe otherwise.  
—————

Gwendolyn Briggs hated matinée shows. No matter how many she had performed, she had always hated them, and strongly felt her voice was best in the evening. When she had told Betsy that, all she received was a scoff. It also didn’t help that on her walk to her opera house on this particular matinée show day she encountered the most enigmatic woman. One that continued to linger on her mind. The ginger was not used to her generosity being rebuffed, especially in such a pungent way.  
It also didn’t help that the woman who held some intrinsic bias against Gwendolyn had the most beautiful auburn hair she had ever seen, and the most deep brown eyes. All she could think about was the way the woman’s hair fluttered with the movement of traffic, long tendrils curling around her face and getting caught in her lips - oh her lips! They were the most warm shade of red, and despite a sloppy application of lipstick, looked so structured yet so full. It was almost goddess like. 

Gwendolyn shook her head, only she would think to call a complete stranger who ran in the middle of traffic wearing an old sweatshirt and sweatpants a goddess. 

“Gwen!” 

“Hmm?” She was snapped out of her reverie, turning to look at Betsy Bucket, the lead Soprano I, self proclaimed dressing room monitor, and all around classic opera diva. Her brunette hair had been carefully pinned into pin curls and she stood in the undergarments of her costume, a cream chemise with stays laced on top, and white stockings. 

“Are you performing at the matinee?” Betsy snapped.

“Yes, of course.” She spoke calmly, trying not to betray what, or rather who, was on her mind. 

“Then stop sitting around! Get in makeup and get your mic! Warmups in ten.”

Gwen scrambled to check the large leather watch on her wrist. Looks like her encounter with the red head lasted longer than she thought. 

“Shit,” she muttered, prying the watch off with clammy hands and rushing to get her stage makeup bag out of a tote. 

The opera diva, only needing the assistance of the costume mistress with her robe a la francaise and wig, which would go on after warmups, stood up to leave. As much as Gwen disliked asking anything of Betsy, the ginger always saw her make a face like she sucked on a lemon, she knew would be late to places, never mind warmups, if she didn’t have some help. 

“Hey Betsy, would you mind helping me with my pin curls? I would really appreciate it.” Gwendolyn said, looking up at Betsy with the aid of the large mirror that sat in front of the makeup chairs. 

“Sure I’ll help you,” the soprano chuckled, “I’ll give you some advice. Next time be early.”

Before Gwendolyn could even roll her eyes she heard a, 

“Thunk, thunk, tha thunk thunk,” that was rapped against the antique wooden door of the female leads dressing room. 

She immediately stood up, dropping a makeup brush full of setting powder on the counter, and releasing a small cloud, much to Betsy’s dismay. 

Knowing who stood on the other side of the door, it was as she began to wipe powder off her side of the counter that Betsy chided, “I swear Gwendolyn, he can’t just-“ 

“-Oh shush prima dona,” the ginger quipped before reaching the door and responding with her own, “tha thunk thunk, thunk, thunk.” 

She proceeded to almost rip the door open and throw her arms around the neck of the man standing on the other side, as if they hadn’t seen each other the day prior. It was a routine however, with a friendship that relied on a mutual ability and fearlessness to love each other. 

“Jesus Gwennie, leave me some breath to sing with!” Rang the merry voice of Trevor, the Opera’s house’s lead tenor. 

“Nope! All mine,” she chuckled, squeezing him tighter. 

They finally pulled apart, and Gwendolyn took in the handsome mug that often left the newer singers in a tizzy. It also didn’t help that Trevor was a natural flirt either. With kind dark eyes and the manners rivaling the Queen of England, it was no wonder everyone who met Trevor immediately fell under his spell. 

It took all of two seconds for him to realize that his friend wasn’t ready for places in the slightest. He didn’t say anything, only raised one perfectly trimmed eyebrow, to which Gwendolyn responded.

“I swear it wasn’t my fault!”

“Well see…sit down, I’ll do your pin curls if you tell me what kept you.” He patted the leather back of the small makeup stool seated at the counter. Gwendolyn knew she was lucky to have her best friend be so talented at doing hair, and she wasn’t surprised at all when he said that in grade school girls would line up on the playground for him to plait their hair.

Unamused with the antics of two grown adults, Betsy looked at the time, 

“Warm ups in two.” 

“Thank you two,” the pair echoed, fully preparing to miss warm ups after watching the older woman leave the room. 

It took all of three seconds for the ginger to pick up an eyeshadow brush and for Trevor to lean down to her ear. 

“Spill.” 

—————

Mildred spent several hours continuing to watch as large trucks and taxi’s barreled over what was once her watercolor piece, but was now a torn and crumpled wad. It almost made her wish she had the money to afford a car of her own. 

“Hey Mildred.” Huck spoke somewhere behind her, eventually coming to sit next to her on the curb. 

She didn’t feel like talking, and she was grateful when Huck didn’t push the issue, instead offering her the heinous canvas bag containing her belongings. She clutched it gratefully, pulling it close to where she was almost hugging it. Continuing to stare outward, a carefully curated mask slid into place. Huck began to ask small questions, did you need me to ride with you on the Subway home? Do you want me to crash on your couch for the night? How about pizza? All of which she merely shook her head. It was the final question that finally made her react. 

“Hey Mildred, where’s your painting?” 

She merely lifted a long delicate finger to point to what had been the apple of her eye during Huck’s one sided conversation. The crumbled and torn sheet of paper sitting in the middle of an intersection. When realization dawned on her friend, she watched his face fall even further. 

“Oh Mildred.” He muttered, mostly to himself. 

She merely bit her lip and shrugged. It pained Huck to see her this way. Though he had no knowledge of her past, he could hazard a guess that it had taught Mildred to shut down. The masks that Mildred slid into place were something he had witnessed her doing frequently in their art class and in public situations. It wasn’t until recently that he realized they were carefully constructed masks at all, merely meant to protect the vulnerabilities of the woman underneath. It made him feel all the luckier where she decided to expose the smallest part of her raw parts to him. 

It also made him all the more desperate to stop Mildred from sealing her walls up entirely. He had to do something. 

Launching himself off the curb, Huck took off running towards his prize. He sidestepped with the surprising nimbleness as a taxi swerved to avoid hitting him. 

“Get out of the road you fecking freak!” The driver of said taxi yelled at him, his heavy Irish accent painting colorful language. 

Watching all of this transpire, Mildred’s mask fell and shattered on the pavement. Panic and fear flooded her mind. 

“Huck stop! Huck!” 

Much like Mildred not several hours earlier, Huck stopping caring. He couldn’t loose Mildred entirely, and couldn’t go back to facing the stares in solitary again. 

Scooping up the ruined art piece, he swaddled it gently against his chest as if it was a Rembrant and not a crumpled, soggy watercolor painting. Looking up triumphantly and still somehow managing a smile, Huck sprinted back on the asphalt.  
Once he reached safety, Mildred grabbed her classmate in a fierce hug, a tender gesture she had never before initiated. Completely shocked and taken aback, it took the stocky man a second to register the gesture. Just as Huck began to raise his arms to reciprocate the hug, he felt a loss of heat and heard a swift, 

“Whap!” and felt an accompanying sting on his good cheek. 

“You imbecile!” Mildred scolded, even though she was acting like quite the hypocrite. 

“You were the one who threw your work into the street!” 

“I didn’t ask you to run into traffic for it!” Mildred snapped, reaching out towards her friend for the mess of paper in his arms. “Please, let me throw it away, it’s dripping water on your shoes.” 

“No, I risked my life for this Ratched, it’s going above my sofa.” He smirked, beginning what seemed like a fruitless attempt to smooth out the damage the piece had taken. 

They stood inches apart from each other, glaring almost eye to eye. However, it was at the last statement Mildred glanced downwards, trying to stop Huck from seeing her face. He heard her though, a soft giggle that sounded like not unlike the ringing of a bell. A sound so sweet that Huck wished she would laugh more. Mildred felt rather stupid, and that she shouldn’t be so harsh considering she did the exact same thing. Not knowing what was so funny and instead simply an easy victim of contagious laughter, Huck began snickering at how ridiculous they were being. Small chuckles passed between the two friends, both finally having realized how ludicrous the whole situation was.

“Do you want to help center it?” Huck finally asked after their giggles had died down. Too tired to put up any false front, she instead focused on the pavement beneath her worn Doc Martens and Huck’s leather loafers. 

Mildred can only hope he understands when she says, 

“Maybe later, I need some time to rest, and think. Give Blueberry a pet for me.” 

Because, truthfully, she does. She needs time to think, and breathe, and plan. She craves the opportunity to decide on her next course of action, on how she could possibly save her grade. Mildred was nothing if not determined until the very end. And - nothing against Huck and his attention demanding cat, but she couldn’t find that kind of space and isolation with them. 

“She’s going to be mad you didn’t come, you know she likes you much more than me.” Huck gave a small smile.

“That’s just because I give her my pizza crusts to eat.” She smirked, shaking her head slightly at the odd tastes of Huck’s borderline obese cat. 

“All the same…” He chuckled, dropping his gaze from Mildred’s face to where her gaze rested on the ground beneath their feet. He reached out a hand and softly placed it on her forearm. “You’ll call if you need anything?” 

“Huck, I can’t promise that-“ 

“Please-“ 

“-Fine.” 

“Bye Mildred, see you on Tuesday.” 

“Goodbye Huck.” Mildred echoed, cold and formal till the end. 

Watching his back retreat into a sea of pedestrians on their way home from work, the art student knew she couldn’t call him. She couldn’t ever bother him that way, and didn’t want to get him involved. It would only lead to hurt. It was much better if she dealt with her problems flying solo, as she always had. 

Holding her bag against her front, Mildred headed in the opposite direction towards the subway station. It was surprisingly empty, much to her relief. This granted her a generous amount of space to put headphones in, curl up on a bench and look out the window at the brick walls that rushed by without worrying too much about getting mugged. Allowing herself to get lost in the soft rock of Fleetwood Mac, Stevie Nicks voice echoed in her mind.

“Will you ever win?  
She is like a cat in the dark  
And then she is to darkness  
She rules her life like a fine skylark  
And when the sky is starless  
All your life you've never seen  
Woman taken by the wind  
Would you stay if she promised you heaven?  
Will you ever win?  
Will you ever win?”

She closed her eyes in a moment of perfect peace. Maybe it was because the lyrics spoke to her at the moment, maybe it was because the subway car was nearly empty, but Mildred began to softly sing along to the chorus. For what was the first time in hours the art student relaxed her shoulders and allowed herself to breathe, the tension in her shoulders flooding to the floor. 

If only she could win. 

—————

Standing in the wings of the large stage, Gwendolyn Briggs chugged from the water bottle Trevor handed her. Sweat coated her forehead, even loosening the mic tape that had been secured to her neck. 

“You would think after doing that solo so many times it would get easier,” she whined in a hushed tone, passing the water back to her friend. 

“Yet it always sounds perfect.” Her friend smiled as he exchanged the now empty bottle for a powderpuff and hand towel. 

Rolling her eyes, the opera singer coated her forehead in powder and carefully patted the back of her neck with the towel, trying in vain to get some of the sweat off of her. 

“If scientists have come up with a way to put a man on the moon, you would have thought by now they would have found away to make stage lights produce less heat.”

Having knowing the problem all too well, Trevor echoed the sentiment. 

“You would think.”

The lights faded onstage as a scene finished. 

“That’s my cue Gwennie, try not to melt.” Trevor whispered quickly as the clapping from the audience slowed down. 

“Break a leg.” 

It was moments like this that the opera singer wished that she had chosen a job that involved her sitting in a well air conditioned building, instead of one where she sang in thick period clothing under the heat of stage lights. Though in retrospect, it was a small price to pay for her doing the thing she loved most in the world. 

She continued to stand in the wings, gazing out into the brightly lit stage. However, her mind drifted far away from the world created by her colleagues on stage, it instead drifted back to the cold eyes and soft lips of the stranger from the afternoon. An entire world seemed to be held in the recesses of those dark eyes, an entire life Gwendolyn couldn’t begin to dream of. Like a closely guarded secret, she wanted nothing more than to discover the mystery of this woman and explore past the harsh facade she put to the world. It was stupid, akin to the behavior of a schoolgirl, but just that one moment and she wanted nothing more than to unravel the enigma of a woman, to run her fingers through her soft tresses and-“ 

“Briggs, get out there!” Betsy Bucket hissed in her ear, breaking her trance. She stupidly had missed her cue. Cursing herself, she hitched up her skirts and hurried onstage. 

It was later after the show was finished and the majority of the cast had left that Trevor and Gwendolyn relaxed in her dressing room, a ritual they performed after Betsy left. Leaning against her windowsill in nothing but her stays and petticoat, the alto looked out onto the street of the neighborhood surrounding the theatre. Early evening began to cast large shadows from buildings onto the sidewalks and obscured the faces of the pedestrians walking below. 

“I know you’re looking for her.” Trevor’s voice broke the pleasant silence with the grace of a flying brick. 

“I am not.” She snapped back too quickly, releasing a shiver that had nothing to do with the slight chill of the early autumn air. 

Her friend gave a noncommittal hum and returned to his task of getting the knots out of Gwen’s curly wig. It was only after a few more tense minutes of pointed silence that Gwen released the snaps of her stays and pushed down her petticoat, exchanging them for a pair of leggings and a hoodie. Though she knew her costume mistress would get on her ass about it tomorrow, the ginger tossed her costume's undergarments on the floor in a wrinkled mess. She moved back to the window outlooking an orange sky, and pushed it up as far as it would go. A rush of evening air flooded the small dressing room, allowing in the small bite of a chill. Before Trevor could discourage her, she threw a leg out over the window sill and ducked beneath the window until she was straddling it. Trying to avoid attention from anyone on the streets below, she quickly gripped onto the sides of the window in a familiar motion, and threw herself down onto the small rooftop ledge the dressing rooms sat atop. Sock clad feet hit the roof, and finally out of sight from prying eyes, Gwendolyn laid down onto the warm stones and let her shoulder length hair cushion her head.  
The clouds chased across tangerine and salmon colored skies. It was a sight that would become rarer and rare for her as the winter months came on, as the sunsets would come earlier and earlier in the evenings when she was performing. 

The exhaustion of performing finally caught up with Gwen, and combined with the evening air and softness of her hoodie, it wasn’t until she heard the drop of trainers onto the roof behind her that she woke up from a half sleep, 

“You better not fall asleep on here Gwennie, if Bucket found you up here tomorrow-“

“-you wouldn’t dare betray me like that-“ Gwendolyn murmured, a small smirk forming. 

“Wouldn’t I?” Trevor’s voice grew closer, “after your rudeness and insistence to make my life more difficult…I just might.” By the end of his small monologue, he had reached her and was peering down, a smile betraying his statements. 

“Never.” She chuckled.

“Never, Ms. Briggs? That’s quite the assumption.” 

“Hm? Well, it’s a good thing I am never wrong in my assumptions.”

“Is that so?” He asked, sounding as if he was with holding something.

“Why all the doubt all of a sudden?” She finally turned away from the sky, looking to her companion. 

“It’s just-“ he paused, trying to find the best way to word the statement, “-I think you have made too many assumptions and plans about your stranger. I’m worried it will not be all that you’ve dreamed.”

“Trevor, please don’t -“ she groaned, pulling her hoodie’s hood down over her head and scrunching it tightly so her face was obscured. 

“-be realistic Gwen-“

“-since when are you realistic-“ she shot back. 

“-there are thousands of people that live in this city, what are the chances you could even see her again.” He was met with silence. “Do you even know her name?” 

More silence. 

“That doesn’t mat-“ The ginger began. 

That elicited a bark of laughter from Trevor. 

“I’m so sorry dear, it’s just, you’re hopeless.” He cried. 

She sat in contemplation as her friend dried his tears, trying to comprehend why this mystery of all people captivated her so. She thought again of those deep eyes. If anyone was willing to discover their secret, it was her. 

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” She finally whispered, though only to herself. 

—————

Miles across the city, Mildred tried to fall asleep on her futon mattress. Though it was an incredibly early night and she often preferred to stay up late, it had been an emotionally taxing day that let Mildred tired. Yet, even after putting on a podcast and taking her meds, Mildred couldn’t fall asleep. She tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable on her lumpy mattress. Resigned, Mildred did the only thing she could in this situation. Sketch and paint. 

Taking out a large sheet of watercolor paper, Mildred sat at her kitchen table and only seeing by the city lights around her, Mildred began to draw without intention. Swirls of a pencil began to take form on the page until she was ready for paint. Taking her water color paint tubes, she carefully dolloped them onto a metal tray stained with paint. She grabbed a fluffy brush and dipped it into the water she poured into a pickle jar, then into the fresh paint. Glacial blues began to swirl and flow into deep navy’s, and eventually blacks. Whites were carefully blended in, and after everything had dried, color pencil was used to define said whites further and add soft gray shadow. 

It was then after she was satisfied with her work that Mildred took a step back to observe the painting, eliciting a gasp. The glacial blues and whites swirled together on the page into two points in the center. They were eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I am so sorry for this being put up late, so much stuff happened in life! I hurt my wrist and had art pieces I needed to finish, but I hope the extended length of this chapter can make up for it. Quick side note, holy crap Mildred is so hard to write. She is such a nuanced character and it's hard to find a balance for her emotions, I have gained so much respect for Sarah's performance as her. Also, thank you so much for everyone who commenting, leaving kudos, and showing support, you all blow me away! As always, said comments and kudos are very, very much appreciated!
> 
> Next chapter, our favorite ladies will finally meet again...
> 
> Find me on tumblr, @cissa-calls


	3. She gazed, they greeted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mildred concocts a little plan, while Gwendolyn has to confront some startling changes. They are both surprised to where it brings them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for some internalized homophobia!

"Bear welcome in your eye,

Your hand, your tongue. Look like th' innocent flower,

But be the serpent under ’t."

\- Act 1, Scene 5 of Shakespeare's _Macbeth_

—————

It was in the early hours of the morning that found Mildred perched on a plastic chair by her kitchen counter, lost in the blue eyes that jumped from the painting. She was scrunched in an otherwise uncomfortable position, with her knees pressed to her chest and her feet bracing on the seat of the chair. She recognized them and was haunted by them, remembering their owner and her ginger hair so carefully pinned back.

Gwendolyn Briggs. 

She was an enigma, a sweet but firm voice that repeated over and over again, refusing to grant the sleep the young woman needed. She couldn’t drown it out. Resigned to another sleepless night, Mildred opened her apartment window and climbed out onto the fire escape. Sitting down on the cold metal grate, she stuck her legs through the bars so they dangled down over the street. The morning breeze send a small bite that tickled her bare toes and made her wish that she had brought a blanket with her, or at least worn some socks. It was in moments like these that Mildred almost wished she had something to do with her hands to mellow her out, like smoking a cigarette. However her time in art college had quickly turned her away from that, after watching so many of her classmates get reprimanded by Doctor Hanover for vaping in class or coming to the lesson completely buzzed.

So, she settled for picking holes in the large graphic t-shirt she wore as a night shirt, and watching the streets below as they awoke from their own fitful sleep for the day ahead.

Mildred Ratched was much like the city herself, restless in nature but exuding in all appearances flowing functionality, a well oiled machine that knew its tune. Though her body sat dormant, her mind ran wild with how she could possible convince her professor to grant her even a fraction of the credit she lost on her assignment. As always, Mildred was not content to lie down, roll over and die. No it was rather quite the opposite actually. She had a plan bouncing around that brilliant little head of hers.

It was finally when the sun began to fade the sky from the black of night to a navy to a lilac that Mildred quit playing with the loose string on her pajama shorts. She pulled herself up and stretched out the aches in her back that came from hours spent painting and sitting still in contemplation. Even though her class wouldn’t begin for several hours, Mildred began to get ready.

After all, the most important part of a plan is to ensure it was set up properly, or else everything would fall apart.

It began with a shower in her extremely cramped bathroom, and a sizable amount of time spent rolling her auburn locks into curlers, which she tucked carefully under a headscarf. If anyone was to walk into the apartment of Mildred Ratched that morning, they would have found that it was not cluttered and stuffed to the brim with things, though there was a sizable amount of art supplies and vinyls for the small record player that sat on the window sill. No, it was rather clouded with the ideas and sheer motivation swimming through the head of its sole occupant. Simple acts like making toast were turned into a surgical procedure, as the art student ensured nothing of this day would go amiss.

Mildred Ratched sought complete control over everything in her life, and after having so much fall from her hands yesterday, she was determined to regain her control. So, she began to retrace her steps to where everything had gone wrong, beginning with her appearance. After having breakfast, she used the heat of a handheld blowdryer to finish setting her curls. She finally took them all out and brushed them out, maneuvering her well practiced fingers to comb them from a frizzy mess into a rolled bun on the base of her neck. Finally, she pinned small curls flat to the top of her head. It may have look old fashion, vintage even, but it was just the look Mildred was going for.

Quickly going through the motions of her daily makeup routine, Mildred swiped a thin layer of concealer on the cross section of her face to cover her dark eye bags. A subdued peach coated her eyelids, followed by a warm brown in the outer corner of her eyes, and a white in the inner corners. With the addition of sharp eyeliner, mascara, and her signature red lipstick, her warpaint was finished

The thrift store hoodie, university sweatpants, and Doc Martens from the day prior were replaced by a white blouse, A-line skirt, and a pair of heeled Oxfords. It was after she switched out her heinous canvas bag for a faux leather satchel did the art student finally take in her ensemble.

Mildred Ratched was not a vain woman, but she was smart enough to know that outer appearances had a large impact. After all, it was part of the reason Doctor Hanover had failed her. It was lucky for her that as she looked her self up and down, she knew it was quite the appearance she had. She smirked,

“Looking good today Mildred.”

It was not often that she would acknowledge the good within her, and see her features for what they were. Years within the foster system and being degraded for her inability to find adoptive parents would do that to a person. Having been put in the system as a preteen with conventional dark hair and eyes, Mildred was often overlooked by the better families for those in search of children with more inspiring features. While everyone else her age was told how special they were, Mildred was forced to realize that she was average. Nothing about her was particularly interesting, though she came to learn that sometimes that wasn’t a bad thing. Though she still carried these feelings, she did gain the slightest bit of gratification when as an adult her hair turned a handsome auburn and the coppers in her eyes became more pronounced.

Double checking to ensure she had everything necessary for the coming day, it was as Mildred took one last glance around her apartment that her gaze was caught by the piece she had finished the night before, sitting in a ray of the morning sun. It was ironic to Mildred that it caught the beam of light, as if it was a beacon to her, even though in reality the light hit the same spot on her kitchen table every morning. In a last minute decision, she rushed over and tucked the piece under her arm before heading out into the streets.

—————

Huck Finnegan found his friend sat on one of the concrete benches in Central Park, deep in concentration with both of her legs tucked into each other, hunched over a piece laid out on the bench in front of her, using it like a table. All Huck could think was, _Mildred’s poor back,_ and chuckling slightly he walked over.

“Glad to see Hanover hasn’t quelled that fire.” He smirked, looking over Mildred’s shoulder, trying to get a glimpse at what she was working on.

Startled, Mildred pulled the paper to her middle. She turned around, and seeing it was Huck, slightly relaxed. Though - she didn’t put the paper back down on the bench.

“Huck don’t frighten me like that! I swear every time you speak - 5 years get taken off my life.” She huffed, kicking her feet off the bench and onto the paved walkway below their feet. She shifted slightly, making a seat for Huck. In exchange, he deposited a disposable paper cup from Starbucks into her empty hand. She took a tentative sip.

“Chai tea latte? Unless I suddenly forgot the only thing you ever order.” He snarked playfully, taking a long sip of his coffee.

All he earned was an eye roll.

“Thank you so very much Mr. Huck Finnegan.”

“Your very welcome Ms. Mildred Ratched.”

They fell into a companionable silence, content to watch pedestrians pass as they enjoyed their drinks before class, though it was still a little too warm for hot beverages. Unconsciously Mildred slowly let the piece she had been working on fall to her lap, giving Huck a clear view of the painting.

“That’s a bit out of your normal style, isn’t it Mildred?” He finally asked after seeing the almost surrealist swirls.

She panicked, clutching the painting close again and averted her eye to the ground.

“It’s nothing really.” She chewed on her lower lip as a tense silence fell. “Do you really think it’s that bad?”

Hearing how small Mildred sounded, Huck flurried in an attempt to correct himself.

“No! No, sorry.” He winced. “I didn’t mean to imply that it was bad at all, it was actually rather cool.” Mildred lowered her eyebrows at the pavement, still not meeting his gaze. “I just mean it’s different than what you usually do! Not that that’s a bad thing, not at all. And I would love to see it again - if you want?”

Silence fell again, only broken by the sounds from the surrounding park of pigeons cooing and the chatter from other people. Gently, Mildred deposited the paper onto Huck’s lap. He gasped involuntarily, picking up the piece to examine it closer.

“Mildred, did you do this?” He asked.

Now hunched over with her head in her hands, Mildred murmured, “unfortunately.”  
  
“When? Just last night?”

A nod.

“Mildred this is…” she winced, bracing herself, “…amazing. I’m not sure why, but it’s so chilling.” He finally choked out.

Confused, Mildred lifted her head to finally make eye contact again.

“But it’s so out of my style - It’s so haphazard, I didn’t put any research or planning into it at all.” She said in refusal.

“I know, it’s different, but it feels fresh. Organic and free,” he paused, “what spurred this on Mildred?”

Immediately he met a hardened eyes. It was clear that a wall had been placed for whatever reason, and Mildred was not letting anything slip past. She had frozen up, and all she could think about was the feelings that stirred in the pit of her stomach when she thought back to the owner of those eyes. Thinking of them through Mildred’s clear mental picture made the pounding in her head come back, and her throat dry up. All day she had felt so in control, yet now she felt nothing but vulnerable. _Why would this stranger do this to her? Who was she anyway?_ Mildred refused to let anything today get past the hardened walls she had so carefully manicured. So she did what was necessary.

“Nothing really, just wanted to switch things up.

The lie fell off her tongue so easily.

“I love it,” He smiled. It was a shame, Mildred thought, that Huck would waste his time with her when all she did was waltz through their friendship like it was a masquerade. _He was so good, so trusting, so vulnerable. Things I could never be._

“Thank you Huck.” She finally leaned back and let out a small breath. “So, how is Blueberry?”

Huck’s face lit up and immediately he dove his hand into the pocket of his jeans, almost dropping his phone in his rush.

“An absolute monster as usual, look at what she was doing last night!” He handed Mildred his phone. Though there was some difficulty seeing through the cracks on the screen, she could make out the familiar form of Huck’s black and white cat. She giggled tentatively as he played a video of Blueberry jumping on top of his laptop and flopping herself across the keyboard, completely messing up what ever paper her owner was working on.

“I had to start again! The little brat somehow pressed the delete button.” He grumbled, making Mildred start to actually laugh.

“-And that is why I don’t have a cat. I swear if Blueberry did that to my vinyls,-” she shook her head as she could warn all cats of the danger of touching her most prized possessions.

“You say that Mildred, but just you wait! I said the same thing and then suddenly when I took my trash out, this demon jumped out of a pizza box and wouldn’t stop following me around!”

“Sounds like a perfect NYC romance to me.” She smirked after finally regaining some composure.

They fell back into a comfortable silence, Mildred having regained full confidence in her plan to regain credit and earn Dr. Hanover’s approval. Huck’s kind words and ease could do that. They finally got up to head to class after she checked the time and realized they needed to start walking toward campus if they wanted to be early. After poking Huck’s side till he woke from an afternoon snooze, him and Mildred began the short walk to campus.

It was funny how much could change in a day. Yesterday, the art student had ran through these halls a victim to fear and desperation, but now she walked through them a picture of grace and poise with the confidence and knowledge that she deserved more. It was to her absolute delight that it appeared that Dr. Hanover had just arrived ahead of the pair. Hastening their pace, Mildred reached him before he could open the door to his office.

“Dr. Hanover?” She called, a seemingly innocent query.

He huffed in resignation and turned to his student, who at the moment stood taller than him, something carefully planned.

“Yes Ms. Ratched?”

“I was wondering if perhaps I could meet with you after school today?”  
  
“Ms. Ratched, if you are trying to redo your critique I will have nothing of the sort -“

“-Of course Dr. Hanover, I wasn’t trying to suggest that. I put it completely on myself for coming ill prepared,” she looked down, “and for not hold my tongue and disrespecting you. I merely wanted to meet with you about the grade.”

It was a simple request, one he often granted to students after a critique. Mildred knew to deny it would be out of his character and rude.

“Yes, Ms. Ratched, I will accept that.”

Satisfied, the art student stepped back to allow her professor to enter his office.

“Damn you’re good” Huck said in awe beside her.

And Mildred knew, that indeed, she was.

—————

It was always a tearful affair to say goodbye to a show. Even after doing it repeatedly, Gwendolyn believed it was one of the hardest parts of performing. To learn to embody a character to the point that on stage it was hard to know where you ended and they began, and then have to shuck that skin off. It was exhausting, but it was the business.

And then there always was the excitement of a new opera, new songs, new characters.

“Attention everyone!” The music director stood up from behind the piano bench, causing the crowd surrounding him to hush immediately.

The excitement in the air was palpable. With the announcement of a new show came the possibility to prove oneself, especially among the younger members of the company. Gwendolyn and Trevor stood towards the back together in their own little pod, used to the procedure. As seasoned performers, for them the novelty of a new show had long since worn off.

“I am sure everyone is excited to hear about next opera, and as always auditions for leads will be a week from today.” The lead man reached down beside him and began to pass out the musical score. “We will be continuing our season with _Le Nozze di Figaro.”_

Gwendolyn can’t help but groan, and Trevor only chuckles.

“It seems our lead alto will have to sing as a soprano” He whispers.

“Shut up,” she squeaks through gritted teeth.

The opera was a classic, one that Gwendolyn knew was coming, especially since their opera patron had a penchant for Mozart. Still, it didn’t make her any more happy about it. She was a naturally lower singer, and all the female leads in this piece used the upper register. Trevor handed her the heavy musical score.

“So, will you be auditioning for Susana?” Trevor asked after they both spent the next few minutes flipping through the music in silence.

“And let Betsy take the part? Of course I will.” She smirked. “Do you want to audition for Figaro?”

“What do you think? You know the drill Gwennie, we do this together.” He looked at her, flashing brilliant white teeth.

The opera had two couples in it, Susana and Figaro, who were getting married and worked as servants for the other couple, the Count and Countess. For situations such as this, Gwendolyn and Trevor had made a pact that they would rehearse and audition together as couples in the show. They had the best chemistry of anyone else in the company, and to not utilize it to get some of the best lead roles would be a shame. Thus, an annual routine of preparing for roles together was implemented.

“My place or yours?” She asked.

“Yours, my place looks a fright.” Trevor stated, causing Gwendolyn to huff in resignation.

“Our definition’s of messy look quite different Trevor.”

The music director cleared his throat in an attempt to regain the crowd’s attention after the announcement of the opera dissolved it. He stated,

“Now, I feel the need to remind you all how important this opera is. As many of you can probably guess, it was requested we put this on by our esteemed patron Ms. OsGood. And as such” he paused to send a glance at the younger actors, “I expect your complete attention and participation. Any tomfoolery, misconduct, or gossiping will result in a termination of your contract. The same goes for any public partying or activities and behavior during the rehearsal, marketing, or performances of the show. It is expected you all like adults and take care of your voice and reputation, not a drunk adolescent during a cast party. If you weren’t aware, your actions reflect badly on our company. Any problems or complaints you may have with these new rules go against the wishes of Ms. Osgood, understood?”

Gwendolyn was startled, a threat such as this had never been issued. All she could conclude was that something was not being told to the actors. Something that would warrant such an intense warning. A glance over to Trevor’s face, which had hardened in a focused confusion, told her that he was thinking the same thing.

“Now, auditions are a week from today, and I expected everyone to come prepared with fifteen bars from the opening and a solo song from a character memorized. The full details of activities that may result in your termination are listed in the back pages of your script. We will also have our set designer and director and costumers beginning construction and fittings earlier than usual. I expect you all to work around them and treat them with respect during rehearsals, this includes auditions. Have I made myself clear?” The room had gone cold, a whiplash created from harsh change in atmosphere, the warm, initial excitement to a chilling curiosity. Their music director, a man known for his amiable nature and willingness to show compassion to struggling actors, had hardened into someone unrecognizable. He scanned with what was usually been a warm gaze, but was now instead a stoney front, over the singers around him. Questions rattled around in Gwendolyn’s head. _What had happened?_

So wrapped in her thoughts, the ginger didn’t notice everyone nodding their heads and the cutting “Dismissed” that was issued out. There was no buzz of excitement, no lingering chatter,that usually permeated the air with the announcement of a new show. Instead, everyone scurried out of the stage door. Except for her and Trevor. It wasn’t until he touched her arm that she was brought out of her contemplation.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asked, making Gwendolyn look up and realize they were the only two left onstage. Even the music director had locked the piano and pushed it back into the wings.

“What happened? What had happened with Osgood?” She muttered.

“I don’t know, but it can’t be anything good.” At seeing how distraught his friend was he placed his hand on her shoulder. “But Gwen -“ she looked up at him, “-please don’t try to get involved. This seems like a matter beyond our control, and the best thing we can do is just follow the rules.” She nodded, only half hearing what he said.

Met with silence, Trevor gave her a small hug.

“I’ll text you later and we can work out when we can rehearse for auditions.” He spoke into her soft hair. “Bye Gwen.”

“See you Trevor.” She echoed automatically.

Trevor left the stage, the sound of the heavy metal door that lead off the stage and into the streets made an echoing thud. The lights had been dimmed, everyone had left. Except her. For someone with a personality so fiery, so certain, that it rivaled the intense color of her hair, Gwendolyn Briggs had never felt so lost. She didn’t know why it hit her so harshly all of a sudden, but it had. Perhaps it was the introduction and clear threat that was made, that signaled something was amiss, that had acted like the catalyst for these feelings. These feelings that left her so overwhelmed.

She had not felt this way in such a long time. Those feeling dropped into her stomach and ground down there. Gwendolyn recalled her early career as an opera singer, how was naive she was, willing to do anything for the possibility of climbing higher on the ladder and steak her claim. She was a willing puppet, trusting her puppeteer would guide her right. It was over time and after so many years of working in ensemble roles for almost no money, even working two jobs so she could keep the lights on, did Gwendolyn finally take control of her strings. She had begun to get lead roles and finally made enough money to quit her job as a waitress. She had stood on her own and surrounded herself in a company of actors who, while sometimes grated on her nerves, had become her family. Yet it no longer felt that way, everything felt cold and distant. Now it felt as though her strings, her independence as a singer, had been snatched by someone, and she was about to be forced to dance. Her gaze hardened as she stared into a sea of darkness and hundreds of empty velvet seats.

Gwendolyn Briggs was - if nothing else - an incredibly stubborn woman.

Her voice echoed clearly into the dim ghosts of the empty theatre,

“Let’s dance.” Picking up her bag, she walked out into the humid streets of the late afternoon, slamming the door as hard as she could.

—————

Despite a small bundle of nerves that sat in the pit of her stomach, Mildred had a productive class period and remained confident in herself and her plan. She had begun sketching a new piece and found herself doing a similar piece, almost surrealist in style, to the one that she had done late previous night. However instead of the glacial blues and whites, she had reached for orange and gold paints.

Her mind and her hands moved in a separate accordance, and it was as she painted fine swirls of an almost blonde color that was blended into oranges down a waterfall that Mildred’s thoughts wandered back to a subject that refused to leave her at peace.

Gwendolyn Briggs.

In in the rush of morning those thoughts had gotten drowned out, but now sitting and painting with the soft drumming of Fleetwood Mac echoing her mind, Mildred’s thoughts couldn’t help but wander back to the woman. She was a stranger, a woman who in all appearances looked like a snob who ran a cutthroat company and ate puppies and drank tears for breakfast. Someone who had a nuclear family of a loving husband and 2.5 children. Yet, it was her kind face and piercing eyes that told a different story. Just thinking about it made Mildred’s stomach flutter and shift, though she couldn’t understand why. No one had repeatedly captured her attention so much, not any of her friends, and certainly not any of the few flings she had early in college. Mildred told herself maybe it was her lack of hesitancy and unabashed kindness that was so unusual.

The only time that she had felt something similar was when Huck made her watch some classic Hollywood movies with him because he would, “not be friends with such an uncultured swine.” Everything had been fine until they had started Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Audrey Hepburn came onscreen. It gave Mildred the oddest feeling and made her unable to focus on the movie - apart from on the classic movie starlit. When she pointed out how pretty Audrey Hepburn was to Huck, he agreed and joked,

“Women falling in love with Audrey, in what world would that happen?” He smile at Mildred, tossing popcorn in his mouth. It shouldn’t have bothered Mildred, but such an implication made her blood run cold. She immediately became defensive,

“I’m not gay Huck - I don’t fall in love with women,” She snipped.

Mildred was not homophobic, heck she was an art student and there was an extremely large spectrum of people in her classes who identified in all different ways and that didn’t bother her in the slightest. Yet, the accusation of her possibly not liking guys and instead liking girls - being a lesbian - made her angry. How could someone think of her like that?

“I’m just joking Mildred. I didn’t mean to -” Huck’s smile fell as he saw how much his comment upset her.

“-Just don’t. Please don’t. I can’t even wonder how you could draw such a conclusion from a comment like that.” She scoffed and turned back to the TV, a clear signal to Huck that the discussion was over.

So, the fact that just the thought of this woman, this stranger, stirred up these similar and utterly confusing feelings, made Mildred incredibly uncomfortable and distracted from her work. She vowed that she would never mention her name again, and as soon as possible she would rid herself of the painting that haunted her with those glacial eyes. Mildred Ratched could not and would not let her feelings control her life.

It also helped that Mildred would never see her again, New York City was too large for that.

Turning back to the waterfall of ginger and warm browns, Mildred breathed deeply.

Her mask was once again slipped into place.

Huck looked over at her from where he stood at a new oil painting. Smiling, he mouthed, “You good?” at Mildred.

The fake grin and nod came easily. It was becoming an easier and easier lie to tell.

The students continued to work in silence for another hour, and Mildred was pleased with how easily the painting was flowing from her fingertips. There was no harsh voice in her mind berating her failure as she continued to follow the waves of copper that curled around and cascaded downwards, soon covering the large paper board. Softly the student blended in some browns and whites, only stopping to take a break when her hand began to cramp. She stood up and brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt, walked over to check on Huck.

“What are you working on Mr. Finnegan?”

Huck jumped at the sudden voice, but gave off his signature radiant smile once he saw who it was. It was so pure, and Mildred was always in both awe and confusion at how just the appearance of her could make her friend smile so bright.

“I took your advice.” He answered.

“What advice?”

“The advice you gave me at the beginning of the beginning of the year!” He still smiled despite Mildred’s confusion. “Here - taken a look,” he scooted his stool to the side so the young woman finally got a full view of what he was working on.

It was once Mildred caught a glimpse of the photo perched on the top of Huck’s painting as reference that she fully understood. It was a staple of Huck, an oil painting inspired by the beautiful California coastline. But yet, the shapes were not as pronounced and instead almost blended together. The textures were smooth in the shadows, but on the highlights it was clear a sponge or small brush was used to stipple a rough almost grainy texture. It was the picture, yet the colors were murkier, and the paint strokes were more pronounced.

Huck had taken her advice, he had used his unique vision to his advantage.

“You hate it.” Huck’s sullen voice startled Mildred out of her silent appraisal.

“Hate it? No - no, Huck. I love it.” Her mask was put down for a second, and a real, genuine smile shown through.

Releasing a sigh of relief, Huck smiled again.

“Really, you do? You’re not just saying that?”

“Yes Huck, really. I am not just saying that. You know I’m not afraid to dish out critiques.”

He chuckled, remembering how harsh Mildred could be towards other students work with her constructive criticism. Which included his own.

“You’re right, as always Mildred.”

They were interrupted by the ringing of the bell, signaling the class was over. Though he knew Mildred didn’t need it, he held her hands and said,

“Good luck!”

“Thank you Huck, and please don’t wait up for me.”

“Are you sure?” He answered. “How about I order in some pizza at my apartment for tonight and you can come over later?”

Mildred felt guilty about how much she had brushed off and lied to Huck recently. It was only fair she would throw him a bone.

“Fine.”

He gave her hand a final squeeze,

“Text me when you’re on the way!”

Once he left the room, it was empty except for Mildred and Dr. Hanover. The silence was deafening, only punctuated by the rhythmic tap of Mildred’s heeled oxfords on the linoleum floor. Hunched over his desk and deeply concentrated on the contents of a students portfolio he was reviewing, it wasn’t until Mildred cleared her throat did the teacher look up.

“Ms. Ratched, how may I help you?” He asked, closing the folder of the portfolio he was grading and setting his pen down. His small and thick hands locked together before settling in his lap.

“Sir, if you recall, I asked we could meet earlier -“

“-of course Ms. Ratched! My apologizes, it completely slipped my mind.”

Mildred was thankful that she had such carefully curated masks, for it saved her from displaying the disgust she was feeling towards this man. Richard Hanover was a genius in the art world, and an incredible teacher who possessed a large amount of power in the art community. But Mildred had come to learn he also had a penchant to be a slime ball. On more than one occasion he had been extremely sexist to Mildred and the other female students, and he possessed an incredibly large ego that made him a bit narcissistic. It was unfortunate that students had to cater to him to get anywhere.

“As I said before, I cannot allow you to redo your critique. I will not allowed your lack of preparation or misconduct to be rewarded.” He spoke as if to a child, not an adult woman.

“Of course Dr. Hanover,” Mildred gave a sickly smile, “I would suggest nothing of the sort. I however was wondering if it would be at all possible for me to earn extra or even partial credit to help my grade. I have worked so hard in this class, and I am incredibly distraught and desperate to make amends to my grades.”

“Miss Ratched, you cannot expect me to simply reward you without some form of consequence -“

“-Of course Dr. Hanover! I would expect nothing of the sort! In fact, I was wondering if there was any kind of program or volunteer work you might have that could utilize my skills but also exact the discipline that you want me to have. I have heard in the past of students helping out with local productions at different theatre’s, like painting backdrops and scenery. I couldn’t help but feeling like this may be the perfect opportunity to earn some credit if I dedicate myself to helping with one.” Mildred finished, chewing subconsciously on her bottom lip. While it was common for the art college to ask for students to help with local theatre’s to paint scenery, it was a rare occasion that anyone ever took the opportunity. Especially the older and more experienced students. It was that simple fact that Mildred was banking on, and she was pleased to see how Dr. Hanover reacted. Surprised, he stood and left his desk to enter his office, which sat behind the classroom. It was not a second later that he returned to stand in front of Mildred, a sheet of paper grasped in one of his bulky hands.

“Miss Ratched, I will not deceive you on the matter, but I am in need of assistance for a matter such as what you are suggesting.” He handed her the paper, and she glanced down to see a small group of names signed on what appeared to volunteer sheet for the opera house not far from campus. “I have had some underclassman, freshman really, show interest in volunteering to paint the backdrops of the newest opera showing, and none of my other-” he paused, carefully picking out his next words, “-more experienced students have signed up. While I would love to encourage the younger students enthusiasm, they simply cannot work efficiently, instead running around my studio like chickens without heads. Now, if you were to lead them as some kind of mentor, well-“ He ran his fingers through his already slicked back hair, “-I would be willing to negotiate with you on your grades.”

Without a moments hesitation, Mildred responded,

“I accept Dr. Hanover.”

Giving a weak smile, her teacher sighed in relief.

“Good, I’ll email you the details later Ms. Ratched. You are dismissed.”

Giving a small nod in parting, Mildred hurried to the front of the classroom to gather her belongings and to shove the opera pamphlet she was still giving a deathly grip into the depths of her bag. Giving one last glance to her teacher, who had already gone back to grading, Mildred couldn’t help but feel an odd pang of guilt. Yes, he was a scumbag, but now he looked so small and tired, and it made Mildred wonder what had happened that made such a brilliant man bitter to the world.

It was a brief moment however, and soon Mildred found herself on the streets of her campus heading in the direction of the subway. She dialed Huck’s number, unable to stop the smirk that tugged on her lips.

“So, I want sausage and mushrooms on my half, and I swear to god Huck if you make some comment calling mushrooms nasty- I will make you paint this opera set with me.”

“I take it your plan worked? Your grade isn’t doomed?” She could hear the smile in his voice.

“Only if I babysit a much of freshman and paint an entire set.” The sheer amount of work ahead of the student had finally dawned on her.

“Mildred Ratched, if anyone can do it…it’s you”

“Thank you Mr. Finnegan, I’ll see you in a bit.”

“See you!”

Mildred hung up the phone, the conversation having taken her into the nearest subway station and wandering though the maze of underground tunnels to her platform. After the subway car arrived, she settled down on an empty seat. Even though she was in one of the most uncomfortable environments, surrounded by filth and strangers, Mildred looked down at the grimy floors and allowed herself something rare.

She gave a small smile.

Everything would be alright, she had to believe that.

—————

It was a week later that Mildred stood outside the imposing facade of the opera house Google maps had taken her too. It was fifteen minutes before she was meant to arrive, but Mildred was slightly nervous. The perfect picture of poise and grace, it was internally that Mildred felt the pressure of her circumstances. Everything had to be perfect, lest she risk the one chance to save her grades. Even though she had been told to dress casually and for work, the student still felt underdressed.

Her old Doc Martens were once again worn in combination with an ink-stained striped shirt and a pair of baggy overalls. Her hair was pulled back in a knot at the based of her head and she only had a light amount of makeup. It was while she was looking at the marque above the opera that had recently changed to reflect its newest show that someone approached her.

“Are you Mildred Ratched?” A young feminine voice asked.

Mildred turned her attention to the direction of the voice. Its owner was a lean girl with long eyelashes and pink lips. She smacked a piece of gum loudly and despite a presence of confidence, seemed extremely nervous. In a white blouse and a pair of jean shorts, sandals, and a clearly exuded aura of naivety that it immediately became clear to Mildred that this was to be one of her charges.

“Yes, and you are?”

The young girl shot her hand out, her voice a little too chipper.

“Dolly, I’m here to help paint the scenery.”

“I figured as much. You’re here a little early so it might take a few minutes for the others to come. We have to wait until they finish up with auditions in there.” She gestured towards the theatre.

“Oh, okay.” The young freshman chewed on her lower lip. They fell into a silence until she finally blurted out. “I wish I could sing.”

Mildred loathed small talk. Despised the very nature of it, and how incredibly pointless it seemed. In her experiences it was always incredibly artificial. Still, she tried to set her disdain for it aside.

“Do you?” She finally answered after several tense seconds. All she could think was, _what was this conversation?_

“Oh yes, I love to sing, though I’ve never been particularly good. I lived on a farm you see, and whenever I sang the hounds would join in.” She chuckled.

This stranger was a curiosity to Mildred, it had been so long that she had stumbled into someone who was so pure, so innocent, so good. It almost pained her to know that when a person like this lived in New York City, they didn’t last long. The city changed people.

It was like an exchange. Opportunity was exchanged for easy hope and belief.

Mildred could only hope that this girl Dolly could hold onto some of that cheery innocence longer than she had. So, despite her innate desire to be cynical, she continued to nod her head to the chatter of the student, interjecting a small word here or there. She decided it would not be herself to break the young artist of her fresh hope and desire.

It was after a few minutes that a small number of other equally bright faced artists gathered around the area who proceeded to say hello to Dolly and introduce themselves to Mildred. It surprised her how many there were, a solid eight painters. Granted, the small number still made Mildred nervous, they had to paint an entire set after all; nevertheless she was still impressed that that many people had been interested.

Checking her phone for the fourth time in five minutes, Mildred saw that it 5:30, the time she was told auditions would be over by and that she was supposed to head into the building to meet with the creative team. Rounding up her small group with a sharp,

“Let’s go!”

Mildred pushed against the heavy front doors of the ancient opera house. She immediately paused when she entered into the cool lobby once the doors had finally shut. She thought that she could hear singing, that the auditions must have gone late. Immediately she shushed her group and told them to wait. The artist proceeded to creep forward until she reached the large doors in the lobby that opened into the opera hall. Pushing one open tenderly, a well of sound burst through the door. It was so loud, so bright and clear, a perfect melody created by the interweaving passion of voices.

A male and female voice. The sounds danced together in synchrony and their tenderness seemed to place Mildred under a spell. She had to hear more.

No longer satisfied with the sliver of sound she was receiving, she pressed further forward. Stepping inside, it became apparent that the raw and tender voices came from the illuminated stage amidst an otherwise dark hall. Though she had trouble seeing from this distance, Mildred could make out the distinct forms of a man and woman onstage, who held hands together in a loving embrace.

They created a haunting echo that filled the cavernous room. Mildred almost couldn’t believe it was just two voices that could create such noise, yet remain so pure. So beautiful. Their voices continued to grow in a delicate crescendo as they reached the crest of the song, then as soon as it began, they died. The song ended, breaking Mildred from her spell. Realizing where she stood and that she had rudely interrupted an audition, what actually embarrassed her most was the dryness of her mouth.

It shocked her. She wanted to hear more, needed to. She desired to be placed under that spell again where all she could focus on was the delicious complexity of the raw voices professing love.

Love, something that continued to frighten her, but was also something that now she craved - to at least hear.

The clapping of other the others in the theatre broke Mildred out of her contemplation and reflexively she found herself clapping along. It slightly reassured her that she was not the only one so enraptured by their voices. The booming voice of a man sitting in the front seat of the audience, whom she assumed to be apart of the production team, sounded.

“Thank you very much Trevor and Gwendolyn -“

Mildred’s gaze snapped from the director to the two individuals now standing at the front of the stage and focused in on the lithe woman with firey ginger hair. Her head spun.

_What? No, it - it couldn’t be._

Chocolate eyes bore holes into the singer, desperate to meet her gaze- to prove that this couldn’t possibly be the same woman.

_Please._

As if on command, those familiar yet foreign blue eyes that kept haunting Mildred met her gaze. The artist froze.

_No._

The woman smiled in greeting, in acknowledgement, causing the pit of Mildred’s stomach to drop.

She could already tell this meant trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap! I am so sorry how late this is, I promise I have in no way abandoned this pic! I have just had so much going on (and still do) and have been written little scenes bit by bit when I can, and have been extremely picky when editing this. I've had a lot of art pieces and projects in progress, and only now are things finally coming together! Thank you for your patience! s
> 
> Side note, and I hope this comes across in the writing, but I put a lot of myself in this work, in these characters. (Granted I am only putting in what fits within their character and actually makes sense in order to flesh out these characters in a modern setting). Your support of this work means so much, because so much of me is in this. So, thank you for every read, kudos, and comment, they are so very much appreciated and continues to it astound me and fuel me to keep writing. Also...I'm genuinely tempted to try to recreate the artwork that Mildred does just for funsies. 
> 
> Don't worry, an update is coming where the two finally interact!


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